I made a list almost a decade ago. And now I am going to attend to that list, one item at a time, until I conquer it and all of its implications on my life and the surrounding world as I perceive it...unless I grow bored of it before then; in which case, it will be just another crumpled idea left to litter the antigravity of cyberspace.

Monday, April 30, 2012

So far -throughout this challenge, with any other letter- I have simply sat down in front of my laptop, typed "A is for..." and a word would just show up, as if by some magical voo-dooism. But, Z is a stupid letter, and I can prove it.
When my muse refused to be part of the (stupid) letter Z, I looked up a list of Z-words and their meanings. It was a list of pure gibberish, and I will share some of it with you now, but first -in keeping with my A to Z writing design: Today, Z is for Z.

I would like to start with "zizz." Any guesses on what this ridiculous, poor excuse for a word might mean? Sparkle! It means sparkle, as in: "Look at Edward Cullen zizz when the sun hits him!" Are you serious? Look, I'm all about having a plethora of synonyms to choose from, but now they're just making shit up.

Okay. How 'bout this one: zoetic? This lovely sham of a word pretends to mean living, vital. "Sally was just in a horrible car crash!"

"Oh my god! Is she zoetic?"

"WTF are you talking about? Did you just say zoetic? I'm hanging up now. And in case you care, she's alive; her vitals are good. Asshole."

I now introduce to you zonoid, which means "like a zone." So, are we now simply adding "-oid" to indicate that one thing is like another? Well then! Here I go: assoid, floweroid, squirreloid, french fryoid, your mamaoid, hemorrhoid (how exactly, pray-tell, is an itchy lump on one's anal cavern like a "hemorrh?"). Oh! and I love this one: zonelet. If you guessed that this word means "little zone," you win an orange conelet with which to mark your zonelet. Notelet: whatever you do, don't tell your husband he has a dicklet. That's just not nice.
Moving on...

Apparently, if you combine the word "zoo" with any other word in the English language, you will get a bonafide farce of a word that supposedly means "animal + the other word." For instance, zoodynamics means "the dynamics of an animal's body." Zoochemistry is the "chemistry of animals." Zoogeography is "the study of geographical distribution of animals." On and on it goes; HOWEVER; zoodikers does not -i repeat, DOES NOT- refer to lesbian animals. A zoodikers is "an exclamation." What the shitlet is THAT about?

As it turns out, zygology is "the science of joining and fastening." So, the next time you put on a belt, or lace a shoe, or knot-off a noose, you now know you are a practicing zygologist. Kudos.

Here's a stumper for you: a zoster is "a girdle," and a zosteriform means "shaped like a girdle," yet a zosterops is not -I repeat, NOT- a one-eyed dinosaur wearing a girdle. I know. I am as shocked as you are.

This A to Z challenge has taught me a lot. I have uncovered some long and well-kept government secrets (poor, poor chickens); I know exactly what I'm going to do if I should discover that the world is, indeed, coming to an end in December 2012; I have learned to embrace the fact that I hear voices...lots of them; I acknowledge and accept that I am a mental masochist; I made the delightful discovery that many of you LOVE cheese as much as I do; I understand that my Asian friend, Me, is pathetically co-dependent, and I judge her for it...freely; I have learned that Oscar Meyer has superior marketing skills; I recognize that memories are important, but they do not define us or the moment in which we stand; I now know that I will never be able to properly spell lickerish, and I don't care, because liccaritch sucks; I realize how amazed I am by the magic we all hold, yet about which, we know very little; I know that I do not regret kicking my bitch-ass ho of a mother to the curb, because she was a horrible energy and influence in my life; I am coming to accept that I may never be able to sufficiently define "intelligent life-form," but I also do not plan to stop seeking Truth; I think it is safe to say that I reminded everyone how cool haikus are; I reminded myself how awesomely unique my goldfish, Morpheus, was (RIP, lil' homie); I learned that most people don't want to be bothered with the rest of humanity, so fuck 'em; I expressed and stand by my love and admiration for dogs; I fully realize that I will always become near-homicidal when subjected to loud chewers, AKA smackers, so watch yourselves, you nasty fouloids; I think I am learning that I want to be a butterfly (I can't really remember the metaphorical crap I wrapped around that one, so...); and also, I like apples. Most of all importance, though, this challenge has taught me that "Z" is a wanna-be pseudo letter that heads up mostly ridiculous, fake words.

That's it for the 2012 A to Z Challenge, folks. It's been real. Now, I gotta get back to the list that started this blog-thing in the first place. Thanks to my constant readers, and thanks to everyone else that stopped by the Basement. I hope you'll keep coming 'round.

Saturday, April 28, 2012

Y is for You dream, I dream. This blog-post was actually inspired by a friend and fellow blogger. Her most recent blog was about a recurring dream she was having a short time back (she has also sent me a couple of messages in the past of which the content was dream related). After reading her blog a couple of minutes ago, I started to think about how important dreams are to the human experience -if for no other reason than the expressive outlet they provide for the dreamer. But naturally, if you have been following my blog for the duration the the A to Z Challenge (or longer ;), you have probably already surmised that I believe the magical things we call "dreams" are so much more than a way to maintain some measure of a sanity equilibrium. And you would be accurate in your assessment (I'm so glad we are getting to know each other so well :). You would also be correct to assume that I frequently ponder and evaluate the vast amount of symbolism that dreams hold, and in so doing, I have discovered that some of the symbolic meaning carried in on a dream-breeze is very personal. But, what astounds me -as an amateur dream interpreter- is the endless amount of Universal meaning found in our dreams. I've done quite a lot of dream interpretation in my time, and the first thing I tell people is that they must remain aware that the sub-conscious mind is a resource of more information than anything we could imagine...even in our wildest dreams; yet, it is also very subjective in its unique application of symbolism. So, the first thing to ask yourself if you are trying to figure out the meaning behind a dream that projected forth (on behalf of your sub-conscious mind) images of, say, a giant figure of Poseidon chained in a circular room with many doors adorning its perimeter as lightning flashes all around, and a funnel of water begins to form at his feet (that have big toes taller than you are) and then swirl upward in a fury (this is actually taken from a dream I had)is: "What do the individual elements mean to me personally?" This should be able to get you started on uncovering what the deepest recesses of your mind are trying to tell you. But, there are many, many, many cases where the dream-symbols have a no-doubt kind of meaning that is Universal in origin. And it is this kind of ancient knowledge buried deep in the walls of our very collective DNA that fascinates the bajeezus out of me.Take, for example: water. You tell me a dream you have had that featured water as a main element, and nine times out of ten, I will be able to explain to you precisely the kind of emotional state that you were in at the time of the dream, or what type of emotional footprint the center-stage subject matter of the dream is attempting to leave for you. If you find yourself wading through murky water toward a shoreline on which "the love of your life" stands, it is likely that your sub-conscious is letting you know that there are unseen "things" lurking below the surface of your love-affair. On the contrary, if you are walking or swimming through crystal-clear waters, but you are finding it hard to move with easy fluidity, then chances are the man/woman awaiting you on shore is offering you honest transparency, but for whatever reason(s), you are struggling to fully deliver yourself to him/her at that point in your life. Rough waters indicate troublesome emotions that are giving into or creating turmoil; large tidal waves headed right toward you are often indicative of being overcome by emotion; floating lazily on calm, emerald waters is an expression of being at emotional ease; shark-infested waters are very often a warning that someone or something (or both) are preying on your emotions to a dangerous degree.

Another dream-element that is almost always universal in meaning is the "house" or "building" element. I have done probably hundreds of dream interpretations for complete strangers, as well as friends and family, and "the house" elementals are amazingly archetypal in their symbolic unity from one person to another. Houses (or buildings of any kind) are usually a sub-conscious regard to the dreamer him or herself; and -to further expand upon the specific details- individual rooms represent different life-aspects of the individual dreamer. For instance: hallways are usually representative of transitions in one's life, so pay attention to the state of them; what's hanging on the walls? Are there objects blocking the "transition?" The meaning of bedrooms depends heavily on what the primary use of the room is. The actual bedroom of the dreamer is an intimate, private place shared only with specific people and therefore usually addresses related information; a guest bedroom represents the people that come and go in one's life. Living rooms are more "open" in their meaning; this is the room into which we invite everyone, even people we know very little. It has a more "worldly" symbolic essence. The kitchen pertains to the social side of the dreamer, particularly as it conforms to close friends and family; it is the "hub" of the house. The kitchen is also where we go to "feed" ourselves, to supply ourselves with necessary "nutrients." Personally, I think bathrooms are the absolute most fascinating of the "house" dream elements, because it -being filled with a system of water deliverance- is usually about the emotional state of the dreamer. If the bathroom is clean and pristine, then the dreamer is likely experiencing pure and positive emotion, or the message of the dream is as such. If there is imagery of leaky pipes and over-flowing toilets, then the dreamer is probably in need of some emotional "maintenance."

Now, you will kindly notice that at no time in this post have I said that any symbolic detail is a definite indication of something in a dream. There are other "symptoms" to consider when evaluating a dream, such as: were any of the dream elements provoked or encouraged by recent life activity (if so, that doesn't necessarily mean it should be written off as meaningless; the symbolic emphasis of any dream element must be placed beside the rest of the dream content for comparison and purpose)? What the body is going through should also be considered (if you have the flu and are running a 102 degree temp., then the chances are high that brain activity is sporadic and cell-signals are crossing). As a result, we often have the most bizarre dreams or nightmares when we are physically ill. And, as I mentioned before, one must always consider both personal and universal meanings of anything symbolic.
There are a whole lot of people that believe that dreams are nothing more than brain sewage. Many people argue that dreams are just our brains' ways of remaining active while we sleep as it continues to process information. They will insist that dreams are all science; nothing more.
As are my feelings with God, I would argue that it should only make sense that dreams are made of both science and god-thought; they are both strategic and chaotic; they are both symbolically prolific and non-sensical.
Dreams are as the rest of the Universe: a paradoxical guide to the inner-workings of existence.

W is for What if the Mayans are right? What if the world as we know it is coming to an end in just eight short months? Well I, for one, would not waste my time dwelling on the impending demise of the human race. Instead, I would:

A) Eat whatever I want in whatever quantity I want. That's right, my homies: St. Peter is going to have to call in the golden crane to haul my fat ass into Heaven. And he better watch his saintly step, because I might just eat him on my way in.

More woman than St. Pete can handle?

B) Wear nothing but pajamas...at all times, which is really no different than what I already do, but I have been known to throw on some jeans and a t-shirt with a snarky saying printed on it should I have to go to Target or the grocery store, or the local Japanese Steakhouse or Olive Garden (neither of which I have been able to afford in over a year). But my jean and t-shirt days would be O-V-E-R. And never would another bra touch my body.

C) I would dine and dash at all the local Japanese Steakhouses and the Olive Garden (and probably Chili's, too) as often as possible.

D) I would find some rich family's "vacation" beach house and move my family into it. The owners will likely be too busy securing their billion dollar tickets on the first rocket to outer-space-safety or their cubby-hole in an underground bunker to notice that strangers have taken up residence in their schmancy beach house. And you know what? They can have their dark world of claustrophobic agoraphobia and powdered drink mixes. I'm going out enjoying an earthly ocean view with the people I love most in the world. How's that for being entitled?

VS.

E) I would never shave my legs or armpits again, and I would totally rock the 70's bush (again, not too different than my current life-choices, but there does eventually come a time when I remember that I am a woman...with a man, and I shouldn't be so inconsiderate with my grooming practices; so I go ahead and smooth myself out once every six months or so. But, if the Mayans are right: never again Lady Gillette! Never again).

F) I would rob a pharmacy.

G) I would pull my son out of school. And I would spend every waking moment with him and his dad...laughing and farting and loving (not necessarily in that order).

H) I would buy lots of adult diapers (and by "buy," I mean "steal," because if the world were coming to an end, I'm just gonna take what I need, bitches.). Yep. Adult dyppies. What? You think I am going to waste one iota of my last days on earth sitting on a toilet? Hellz to the no! I will straight up shit myself, toss the diaper away, and re-suit for future ass battle, of which I imagine there would be a lot, since I would be eating so much; in fact, I would have an ass-battalion living in my pampers, engaging in constant "air" strikes -at the very least. Other responsibilities of the ass-platoon would include boulder removal from the cave's entry. Haha! Oh man. I crack myself up. Nothing like a good doo-doo metaphor. Anyway, what was I taking about? Oh yeah. The Mayans and wearing diapers. Damn right.

I could really go on and on. But, I have covered the really important basics: being with my loved ones, gorging on food, pajamas, Sasquatch-like non-grooming, thievery, beach sunsets, and shitting myself. Anything else would just be extra gifts from God, who apparently thinks so little of me and the race to which I belong that He/She would just flush us away like cosmic turds...if the Mayans are right.

Wednesday, April 25, 2012

V is for Venus. I wonder how many people understand the significance of the planets. How many people can see what is right in front of them? Our planets: weary travelers, falling in and out of retrograde and direct motion as seen from Earth, re-visiting the same star-stations, all the while, screaming for our attention. As a brief example -because I only have brief examples- I present this blog-post:
For several weeks now, I've been watching as Mars climbed its way out of the Lion's belly, like a red-hot stone too hostile for the beast to digest. For two seasons, I have watched Jupiter slowly wander through the Fall/Winter zodiac. I watched it: a blazing fire burning without fear in the midst of the oldest battle between the hunter and the hunted, and I could not figure out on whose side he was. Eventually, I realized that I was the one choosing sides. Jupiter was but a spectator...leading by example?
As Winter came to an end, Jupiter's bright and magnificent presence was dulled...by a girl. Venus became visible in the western sky (northern hemisphere); changing, as she always does, from "morning star" to "evening star" and back again. Her light was impossibly bright, even as she stood next to the almighty Jupiter, who -until her arrival- ruled the sky.
Venus. She speaks quickly. As she leads or follows Earth's life source, she speaks fast.
She is the Goddess of Love, yet her surface cannot be seen through the acidic clouds that surround her. And behold! We are reminded that in the very form and choreography of our planets, the eternal paradox (impossibly out of our understanding's reach) of existence can be seen.
This Universal irony leads me to recall that Mercury is both messenger and trickster, leaving us to always wonder which of his tales to follow, to believe. Then, I consider Venus' relationship with Mercury (also known, respectively, as Aphrodite and Hermes); creating -in unity- the Hermaphrodite.

We have come to define the hermaphrodite as a uni-personal display of both male and female genitalia (further proof of humanity's tendency for base levels of thought procession). But, what if we were to step outside the basic functions of humanity? What if we could consider the part-of-the-whole symbolism that is the ancient message? What if, for instance, we understand that since Aphrodite/Venus is the Goddess of Love, and Hermes/Mercury is the Messenger of the Gods, it is far more reasonable to define a Hermaphrodite as a "messenger of love?"
Of course then we would have to ponder the reasons why our most ancient societies would pick a raging acidic planet to represent love. And further, why would their Messenger also be our Trickster? It is at this point that I leave you to roll your eyes, or rise above lazy-looking. This is also where I admit to knowing very little about anything, but I do know where to find our world's oldest story of existence, unrevised and without need of translation.

You might have noticed that when I have fallen a day behind in the A to Z challenge, I resort to copy/pasting previously written snippets or poems from years gone by (I've said it before; I'll say it again: I am sinfully lazy). Today is no different. So, today U is for....

"The Underdog"

A cavernous exploration-
A ravaging, a rape exploiting
the misinterpreted.

Hieroglyphs centuries young
to creatures unknown
to introspection.

Flurries of the mind
returning to an alphabetically
dismantled juxtaposition.

Nonsense moves mountains,
while the lame duck sits
in contemplation.

Revolving doors stuck
between parallels and paradise-
still unacquainted.

Monday, April 23, 2012

T is for Things I hear. That's right. I hear voices. Lots of them. They tell me things. And I keep a written record of these things as proof that I am either bat shit crazy, extremely enlightened, or just a lowly messenger of the Enlightened, OR some delightful cosmic joke that is a mixture of all three.
So without further adieu...Ladies and Gents: I now present to you a few randomly chosen excerpts from my written account of the "things I hear," only as they regard all things of an existential nature (I really don't want to get into the revealed mystery that is the "hot-dog" -as it was entrusted to me by my mysterious "friends." Nor do I wish to unveil the Universal hilarity behind Britney Spears and Justin Bieber. Maybe another time. Today I'm feeling a little "deep," so I shall follow my heart)...Here it is...Some of it, anyway:

"The Soul. It is as a seed -a God-seed- with layers spiraling into each other, ever growing, ever expanding, ever becoming God."

"The Will is Love's greatest gift, leading eventually to Love's only purpose: to Love."
"What you call 'evil' occurs when the Will is transformed, undone. Free-will is the essence of soul-life; therefore, the loss of free-will is the only true death, transforming seed to stone."

"A Will undone becomes empty, unpurposed energy, easily controlled w/o reason or design. This is what chaos is made of; this is where peaceful reflection exists no more; this is where God cannot go, because what Is cannot ever not Be. Where there is no Will, there is no God."

"No soul embarks on the Cycle of Incarnation without constant Divine help and assistance. The Worlds of Incarnation are uniquely designed according to the souls' developmental needs. Choice of world and time-placement is determined during Conscious Continuum, after Soul-Reflection and Cyclical Cleansing (which are explained previous to this excerpt, but I chose not to include them in this blog-post...maybe another time). Every part of Conscious Continuum is supervised and assisted just as every incarnation is supervised and assisted. The soul's Divine Family serves to protect, guide, and teach; but is not ever to make choices for the soul."

"The Light Union is the essence of Creation. All things existing derive from the Light of God."
"Light Beings are the very essence of God, and as they find strength in God, so does God find strength in them. It is the Cycle of Illumination. God's light is lifted by every single Light Being in the Universe."

"In substance, the soul is pure energy; it is a light source from the Light Source. Molecularly speaking, the soul moves at an incredibly fast vibratory charge. As electrical currents flow, so does the soul move. The charge -or "jump"- from the Creator is in influx according to need. The fresher the "spark," the brighter the light, and the higher the soul vibration. What is important to understand here is that any soul at any time can connect to the Source in request of "boost" or charge. The Creator is an inexhaustible Source readily available to any soul that seeks it. It is also possible for a soul to receive an uplifting charge in the way of Necessary Assistance (no request required), but it is up to the individual soul to open itself up to the current."

"A soul with a closed circuit is a lost soul, unable to send or receive the Loving Surge from the Highest One. But to become this lost is rare, indeed, and it is at this point that the soul's Will suffers immense loss of Central Control."

"The soul, being an energy current in and of itself as dictated by the synchronized movement with the Creator Source, is also able to provide a current to uplift another Family member, sharing always the current of the Creator. Lift yourself up by recognizing the ever-ready and abundant flow of current that you and all Creation is made of and connected to; lift another up by recognizing the same."
"Love is the highest vibration in all of existence."

"If you are looking for Holy water, you needn't bother with a church and its priests; rather, go to the place where the waves come in to meet you, take a humble knee, and give "Thanks" for the expanse before you. Then, let the tide roll over you, and accept your Baptism by God's hand."

I wish I had the time and inclination to go into the parts about alien "life forms." But, I get enough pamphlets in the mail inviting me to "enjoy a lovely stay" on "our grounds secured by chain link and electrified barbed-wire." No thanks. I'll just stay out in the world with the rest of the crazies.

Saturday, April 21, 2012

S is for Stolen from my Facebook Notes...again. Okay, I'm taking the easy way out on this one, but I had to catch up on "R" and I have an article to write today, so I am pasting this from a note I wrote on FB a couple of years ago and tweaking a few things (just a few side-bar notes).
So today, S is really for...

"Summed up in 50"

Things I have learned in 36 years....

1. I have learned that 36 is NOT old, but I am well on my way.

2. I have learned that most people are only interested in themselves and all things relevant to themselves. I am not being self-righteous. I, too, am guilty of this at times.

3. I have learned that jealousy is devout masochism.

4. I have learned that passing judgement is a waste of time, though I continue to be guilty of it.

5. I have learned that anti-depressants make me fat (since I wrote this 3 yrs ago, hypo-thyroidism has been identified as the culprit...but it is likely that the hypo-thyroid function was brought on by my head-meds).

6. I have learned that people who continuously poison our lives, including relatives, DO NOT - at anytime - HAVE to be tolerated.

7. I have learned that unconditional love DOES exist, though it appears to be highly endangered.

8. I have learned that my God is not necessarily your God, and that is perfectly fine.

9. I have learned that a cute puppy can turn into an ugly dog.

10. I have learned that Dr. Seuss was a genius.

11. I have learned that hostility is a dangerous thing that requires constant tending.

12. I have learned that I am no longer afraid to say the following words: "I am a writer and a poet." This is not bragging. It simply is. It is not required that everyone enjoy my work for this to remain who and what I am.

13. I have learned that karma does not do my bidding.

14. I have learned that cheese deserves its own monument...in every major city.

15. I have learned that just because one deserves monumental recognition and praise does not mean it will come.

16. I have learned that monumental recognition and praise is a side-effect, not a reason.

17. I have learned that the smell of Fall soothes my soul.

18. I have learned that there is no shame in flatulence, and certainly no reason for our skin to run cold and tingly w/ fear & shame should flatus escape our butt holes in public.

19. I have learned that flatus is indeed a word (sorry i doubted you, babe).

20. I have learned that despite what my mother says & does, I deserve to be loved.

21. I have learned that my dad probably did (and is doing) the best he could/can.

22. I have learned that humans very quickly forget the things we CAN live without.

23. I have learned that silly, raw fits of laughter are necessary.

24. I have learned that ambition does not come easily.

25. I have learned that the mountains and the ocean make me feel closer to God.

26. I have learned that consciously remaining in unhappy conditions is NOT EVER the right thing to do.

27. I have learned that it is physically impossible for me to swallow prune juice.

28. I have learned that 'hope' and 'faith' are not closely related, after all. In fact, it seems to me that hope is faith, denied. I am often hopeful (interesting that this should be listed here, considering the content of my "R" blog written three yrs later. Coincidence? Probably).

29. I have learned not to stand gazing skyward when a feathered formation flies overhead.

30. I have learned that if I were a bird I would devote my life to seeking out and shitting upon upturned faces and newly washed cars.

31. I have learned that Father Time waits for no one, and is therefore a little irritating.

32. I have learned that children say very important things that are easily missed if we aren't paying attention.

33. I have learned that most people do not say what they mean.

34. I have learned that, for many, growing older should not be equated with growing wiser.

35. I have learned that a closed mind should provoke pity rather than anger.

36. I have learned that the truth about certain matters will never be uncovered, regardless of how diligently we search. However, I have also learned that despite this, I have no intention to stop the search. Just in case.

37. I have learned that insomnia can introduce ideas that would have otherwise gone unattended. Unfortunately, it also causes mood-swings and hallucinations.

38. I have learned that the only true atheist is someone that doesn't believe in Love.

39. I have learned that memories can have substance; lovely and ghostly substance.

40. I have learned that it is possible to be a thousand variations of myself, but as long as I am true, that's okay.

41. I have learned that those who spend their days in comparison to others are relinquishing the moment's chance to love & respect themselves.

42. I have learned that no one can offend me without my permission.

43. I have learned that just about every food product can be pickled, yet only okra and cucumbers are acceptable.

44. I have learned that to be politically correct is to be thoughtfully corrupt.

45. I have learned that Charmin w/ Aloe is well worth the extra money.

46. I have learned that there is absolutely no excuse for a man not to have enough consideration to put the toilet seat down. None.

47. I have learned that when I am simultaneously tired and hungry, the devil himself would do well to avoid me.

48. I have learned that beliefs are meant to change and grow.

49. I have learned that ignorance is not contagious; it is standard.

50. I have learned that when the learning stops in this life, so will the breathing.

R is for Ruining a Perfectly Good Moment. This is habitual behavior for me. If something even remotely resembling contentment should find me, I chase it away. I've put a lot of thought into this. And, I think that the most fleeting moment of peace is all I will allow myself, because it feels so foreign. It feels dangerous. It's the truest example of a "vicious cycle." I long for it, I seek it, I find it, and I kill it before it can kill me.
They say we develop our most basic thought foundation at a very young age. Don't worry: I'm not one of those people that acts out in irresponsible and inconsiderate ways and then blames my childhood when thrown into the interrogation chamber. But, I am also not blind to the lasting implications of my earliest years, whether good or bad.
Peace was not something that was available in abundance when I was a kid, and when it did come around, there was usually a high price to pay for it. So, I think I just learned to say, "thanks, but no thanks" to the peace and contentment vendors. I don't know if it's just me, or if most people feel as if life is going to rip a limb off in exchange for more than a second of tranquil, worry-free living, but whether normal or borderline psychotic, as tempting as it is to maintain a peaceful state of existence, I feel like it's just safest to keep my armies actively patrolling the perimeter.
And it's easiest. If I am being honest (and why be anything else unless caught between the thrill of a new mother and her excessively ugly baby): being content is just not easy. It takes work, strength of will. It also requires faith (faith is not reserved for the pious, by the way. One can have as much faith in themselves and the workings of life and the universe as in any God-head). Not hope. Hope is good, but it isn't faith, because if you have faith, there is no need for hope. Faith is absolute. Hope is fickle. And faith is a hard thing to hold on to. It's beautiful and whole, but it's slippery as hell. And yet, there seems to be a paradoxical truth about faith in that once we stop trying so hard to hold on to it, it will rest easy in our grasp.
All the great paradoxes of life present yet another aspect of peace and contentment that requires energy exertion: balance. Also, there is acceptance: acceptance of the River's flow and the Pendulum's swing. Just in Faith, Balance, and Acceptance we can see how letting ourselves be, by letting the moment be, is a giant pain in the ass. It's not easy, and I am lazy. I'm lazy, and I'm damaged, but I have hope that I will one day acquire the discipline required not to toss the moment carelessly around until I drop it. I am hoping for faith.

Friday, April 20, 2012

Q is for totally, completely, and pathetically co-dependent. I don't know much about other languages, but in the English language the letter "Q" has an obsessive and (seemingly) nonsensical relationship with the letter "U." Since pre-school, we have been taught that "Q" makes the kwuh sound. So, why the need for the inevitable "U" in most of our Q-words? Is Q incapable of being trusted to begin words on its own? I mean, without U there to supervise, are we in danger of Q running amok, spreading its kwuh all over the place? It's gotta make you think.
In this way, the letter Q actually reminds me of some people I know. The person that comes to mind first and foremost is named Me (she's asian). Me met her husband at the tender age of sixteen; they married before her 20th b-day, and had a (planned) baby boy when Me was twenty-two. Truth be told (and why tell anything else unless answering questions about missing Vicodin): Me was totally self-destructive at sixteen. She wasn't afraid of much, because she hadn't much to lose if she...lost. The man that Me married literally saved her life, but he saved her in other ways, too. Just by loving her when she was incapable of loving herself: he saved her.
Me is a feisty one. She doesn't take shit from anyone and for the most part, never has. But, this characteristic might very well be born more of a quick and lethal temper than anything resembling a brave heart (not that she would want to resemble Mel Gibson; he's a little too hairy and manly; plus, he's kind of a racist and sexist douche bag). The point is: Me will stand up to anyone. She doesn't go looking for a fight, but if the fight comes to her she will meet it head on, and probably with a rage that few have ever witnessed. Yet, when it comes to fighting her own demons -from the inside, out- she's weak (sorry Me if you're reading this, but it's true). She's ill-equipped. She has come a long way in life, no doubt, but Me still floats out -a raftless body- into dark and scary depths from time to time, and just like U for Q, her man is always there, following close by with a life jacket at the helm, ready to toss it out when she fires her flares (i really want to make a fart reference right now, but I'm having a hard time tying it in to what I'm writing about).
But also like Q clinging to U, Me wonders what would happen if she ever had to face the deep, dark waters alone? Would entire languages fall apart? Would she live in a world of grunts and clicks?
I don't know. I guess I shouldn't be so hard on her, though. So what if she's a co-dependent, emotional infant? There are worse things she could be. Right?
Poor Me.

Wednesday, April 18, 2012

A loss of a notion bestows itself
forcing understanding to leave;
Watching the hands count on my boredom
as I count on them to deceive.
A rushing tide fills my mouth;
the heavens begin to run dry-
Substituting a life for Life...
composing the imposing lie.
I'm left as false as the concept of time,
feeling dreams and hopes start to slip.
Traveling too fast for a role to play out,
trying to turn back on a one-way trip.
A heaving miracle claws its way forth;
My spirit mockingly calm...
As minutes build up to a splintered cross-
leaving hours to rust in my palms.

Tuesday, April 17, 2012

O is for OBVIOUSLY....
Obviously, pig's feet were not now, nor ever, meant to be pickled.

Obviously, women have digestion tracks, too, and as such...we FART.

Obviously, the Keurig Coffee Maker is the best invention of the 21st century.

Obviously, the abbreviation 'LOL' has transmutated from meaning "laugh out loud" to becoming the technological equivalent of a nervous tic.

Obviously, if I was stranded on a deserted island, the last thing on my mind would be my top five favorite albums of all time, because I would -obviously- be consumed with whittling a canoe out of a palm tree.

Obviously, society owes the consistent proper spelling of "bananas" to Gwen Stafani, and "bologna" to the ingenious marketing skills of Oscar Mayer.

Obviously, pantie-lines are inexcusable. And quite frankly, offensive. C'mon ladies. If you don't want to free-flap it, then try a thong for a couple of weeks (not the same pair, obviously; You'll want to change them daily as with any other genital related undergarment); you will get used to it and eventually, anything else will just feel unnatural.

Obviously -and I have discussed this at length in FB statuses- Humpty was pushed. He did not "fall." He did not jump. He did not slip. He was pushed as a warning-statement to all eggs: if you are not fried, hard-boiled, poached, or scrambled, you should not be sitting on a wall. Duh.

Obviously, Santa really has some major qualm with adults, and it isn't fair, and I resent it.

Obviously, there is so much more that is obvious, but it is almost 9 PM, and I have yet to eat dinner.

So, I'm gonna sign off for now, but will likely lay awake tonight counting the "obvious" like sheep and will, therefore, probably amend this obviously epic blog as time goes by. WHICH reminds me: obviously, old Father Time -with his long, flowing white beard and his arthritic hands wrapped around his famously depicted walking stick- has either discovered the medicinal value of Viagra as a sure-fire source to put some pep in his decrepit ass step, OR the mo-fo is now sporting a motorized wheel chair, because for an old f*cker, he sure is moving swiftly along these days. Obviously.

N is for Not all Mine. I have a sneaking suspicion that many writers will be able to relate to the subject of this post. If not, then I guess it's about time for me to have the straight jacket re-sized (crazy people like to eat, too). Either way, I'm curious about it. And, I should say -as a side note- that after talking to a friend, I don't think this kind of phenomenon applies only to writers; I think practitioners of any artistic release may experience what I call the "not-all-mine" aspect of creative molding.
There have been many, many times when I have sat down to write something -whether it be a poem, a blog post, a non-fiction piece on the growing plague of politico-hypocritco, or my novel- and my fingers just start dancing across the keyboard, moving to a rhythm played by some unseen...something. It's as if the words are introducing themselves to me, instead of the other way around. There have literally been at least a half-dozen times in my life when I have been looking back over old, pseudo-discarded work and had absolutely no recollection of writing a re-discovered piece. I'll ask my husband, "Do you remember this?" To which he almost always comes back with the safe response of, "Yeah, I think so." And I'll stare at it -written in my hand-writing, garnished with my signature grammatical style- and just shake my head. Then there are the times with the novel when I write almost trance-like, moving through entire chapters with an ease that feels almost mystical. Entire hours are lost in what seems like mere minutes, and when the tippety-tap of the keys comes to an abrupt end, I feel both exhausted and exhilarated. Yet, I never go over what I have just written in that moment. I save it to my flash-drive and walk away. When I return, prepared to embark on the next chapter, I will read what I last wrote in an effort to find my place and flow before moving forward. And while, of course, the story-line and characters are familiar to me, there is a certain prose that appears: dressing metaphors, similes, and other descriptive language in a colorful and coordinating attire with glittering accessories, none of which I even recall having on hand in my writer's wardrobe.
I know there are many writers and artists that believe in -or at the very least consider- the possibility of "a muse." I'm not sure how I feel about that, myself. Even still, a muse is meant to inspire, right? Not to actually do the writing, painting, or composing for us. Right?
So, if I am being completely honest (and why be anything else unless fake-blaming another person for the determined fart that broke free in a confined space, despite your best efforts to clinch and smile), I think I would have to admit that the things I write do not always seem like they come from me. As crazy as it sounds: I think I have help. And in case I'm right and not bat-shit crazy, I would like to give a shout out to the invisible wordsmith that chose me to hang with. Thanks for doing what you do to help me suck as little as possible. Much props, homie. Much props.

Saturday, April 14, 2012

M is for Memories. I find memories to be a two-edged sword. One edge is dull and safe to play with; the other edge will cut the hell out of me with very little effort. But, the truth is: I wouldn't trade the sword for much, if anything (even if the craftsman is obviously a damn lunatic).
Memories are like the journal that life keeps for us, on our behalf. We can flip through the pages at will, or sometimes it just falls off the ol' mental shelf and opens to a certain page. Some pages -both painful and beautiful- are ear-marked, because we return to them often. Other pages are glued together, the message unavailable, repressed. If we really consider the power that our memories have over us, we might find ourselves curled in fetal position under the covers, sucking our thumbs and shivering. But, we may also find ourselves in a deep stare, smiling outwardly at re-emerging images with a sincerity and vulnerability that many of us only uncloak by accident, in the grip of a happy moment gone-by. Yet, if we keep in mind that they are memories -the realest of the unreal, but unreal just the same- we can better determine how we let them influence the moment (the only real thing we've got) and all that fills it.
The thing is, though, most people's journals have pages that are worn so thin, they are almost transparent. Sadly, in many instances, these are the pages that hold the most pain and regret. We turn to them again and again, in search of some punishment or remedy that isn't there...not on those pages, anyway. The only remedy lies in the opportunity to fill the blank pages that remain with renewed strength and knowledge gained -compliments of the pain and regret. And as for the punishment: it is not now, nor has it ever been a requirement. We can use the Tree of Life to sustain the paper on which to record new hope and love and happiness, and the inevitable shit-smear and tear-stain; OR we can use the Tree of Life as a resource for the materials needed to crucify ourselves. It's our choice. It's always been our choice. It will never not be our choice.
We touch a flame, and it burns. We retain the memory so we know that if we touch a flame, we will get burned. We should not regret the memory; we should not be punished again and again for a burn we already suffered. We keep the good memories for the joy and love they bring to the moment. As long as the lesson(s) from the bad memories exist with us in any given moment, there is no need to keep returning to the memory, itself; it's been recorded, and served its purpose. We should not regret the memory that teaches any more than the memory that embraces.
Life is short; our stories are brief.
We cannot lose ourselves to the past; we can only lose the moment.
Memories mark time. They do not stop it.

Friday, April 13, 2012

Okay. After the weight of my last post (some heavy sh*t, right?), I have decided to make this one light and airy, like a broccoli fart (I was going to say like a Taco Bell fart, but those tend to have more, um, "substance" than lightness, so I went with broccoli). And, in the spirit of light-weight material, today L is for Lymph Nodes. J/k. Today, L is for Little Kids Starving on the Streets. NO! Of course not. That's not light at all. That's like, a pant-load. Okay. For real this time: L is for Lipstick. That's light, right? I mean, except for the darker shades. But, I said "light," not boring. One more time: today, L is for..... Licorrice. Man, I hate that stuff. I hate it so much, I'm not even going to spell-check it. Is there anyone on earth that actually likes liccorrice? If I go to hell (and the chances are like 50-50; if the Christians got it right, I'm screwed. If the Buddhists have it right, I might have a chance at Nirvana -or is that the Hindus? If I, however, have it right, then I will not only be going to heaven, I am actually the ruler of all that Is, waiting to be set free from this body by a posse of archangels that are being held hostage in underwater volcanoes. Wait. That might be Scientology. Whatever. Like I said, 50-50), all they will serve me is lickerish and beets. And I will only be allowed to listen to Taylor Swift singing infinite duets with Bob Dylan while I eat my liquoriche and beets.
Where does likkereice come from, anyway? Isn't it a root, or something? If so, I feel sorry for the plant. I mean, if the very thing that holds your life in place sucks as bad as lickheritch, then what can that possibly say about your life, as a whole. Poor, poor likoriche plant...if it is, indeed, a root.
It's more likely, though, that lickqueriss is one of the evil things left behind by the Moofocka Alien Tribe, like roaches (if today was "R" Day, I would be going off right now about how roaches are the absolute physical manifestation of everything negative and evil in the world). Yes. Now that I think about it, Lleikorish resembles exactly the kind of thing a Moofocka would invent. Damn Moofockas!
Well, it looks like I have uncovered yet another lingering mystery with my master blogging skills.
You're welcome.

Thursday, April 12, 2012

K is for Kim. My mother's name. And this blog-post is a tribute to her. I want to honor her for all that she has done to help make me the person and parent that I am today...
Dear Kim: You are the reason that I go out of my way to trust the things my son says, to always rally with him, not against him. Yes. You taught me, first hand, what it feels like to always have my word questioned. I know exactly what it means to get in trouble at school for something I did not do, but spend the whole day in fear, knowing that you would take a stranger's word over mine, knowing that I would have to endure your wrath...in innocence. Hey! Remember the time when I passed out - unconscious - in the fourth grade? Remember the bruise on my back from falling against the metal support bar of my school desk? Remember how you accused me of doing it for attention? Remember how you came into school to "investigate" and the school nurse looked at you with such disbelief and horror as she insisted that what she witnessed was a genuinely terrified and confused child and how no nine year old could possibly be that good of an actor (oh, i remember that, because the school nurse became my hero that day); but on the way home, you STILL yelled and screamed at me for faking it, for causing you such inconvenience. And I cried. Not because you were yelling at me again -god knows, i was used to that by the age of three - but because I thought something might really be wrong with me. Do you remember what time of year it was? Because I do. It was winter, in December. I remember because your response to my fear that I might be dying was: "Okay, fine. I'll make you a doctor's appointment. But first I will take back every Christmas present you were going to get, so I can pay for it. Does that sound good to you? Is that what you want me to do?" At nine years old, I had to choose between having a Christmas morning and my possible impending death. When I didn't answer right away, you said, "Well? Should I take ALL of your presents back or not?" I shook my head no, to which you responded, "That's what I thought, you little fucking liar." Thank you for that.
Also, I want to thank you for teaching me how to allow my son to make mistakes. Oh boy. Which mile marker to begin with on the ol' memory lane? How about the time when I was about eleven, and we were planning a day at the Renaissance Festival with one of your MANY boyfriends and his two adolescent children that my brother and I had never met? Yes. Let's start there. A girl at school - the week before - had given me some of that new "liquid" eye shadow (a horrible invention, I must admit, but it seemed excessively cool at the time). It was bright blue. As an eleven year old girl, I wanted to look my best upon meeting your boyfriend's kids (and for everyone else at the festival), but I had never applied make-up before. I did my best, but man oh man, that liquid stuff REALLY went on thick. When I came into the kitchen to boast my new sassy look, you had one of your monumental meltdowns...all over me. You jerked me into the bathroom and shoved my face into the mirror, screaming that I looked like a whore, a clown, and again...a whore. Remember that? Maybe this will help jog your memory: you said, "You know what? I was going to make you wash it off, but instead I want you to walk around all day looking like a slut since that's what you want. All day today, people will stare and laugh at you, and that is exactly what you deserve." And you were right. When your boyfriend and his children arrived, I'll never forget the way they looked at me. And that's how the rest of the day went for me. Thank you for that. And then there was the time that I made the world-shattering mistake of borrowing one of your over-night bags to use at a sleep-over. Remember that? Yeah. You were going to spend the night at a girlfriend's, and Shane was going over to one of his friend's for the night, and I was going to a slumber party. When I got home from school, I had to quickly gather my things, because my friend's mom was coming to get me. I took your blue over-night bag, which had within it some cosmetics and other random toiletries from the last time you used it, so I dumped them on your bed, and rushed to throw some clothes and toothpaste in it. Away I went. I had the best time, too. For about an hour. That's about the time you showed up and ripped me away from the party. You screamed at me the whole way home about what an inconsiderate little bitch I was. Then, when we got home, you struck me repeatedly with a belt. And you left. I spent the rest of the night in an empty, dark house. All alone, scared, and wondering what the hell I had done. I was ten.
You were such a good teacher. You also taught me to never quash my son's personality and his connection with the people he meets. Remember when you signed Shane up for the Big Brother Program, and he really, really liked it? He got an awesome "big brother" that he adored. Remember how you started to date his "big brother," and as a result they could no longer be partnered up? I do. I remember how upset Shane was, but more than anything I remember that his used-to-be-big-bro-turned-your-boyfriend-of-the-week was coming over to pick the three of us up for a day planned at the park. He was driving some cool sports car, and when he saw how I was admiring it, he took me out in the driveway and showed it to me. He told me all about it and let me sit in the driver's seat. Then he said, "Hey! Why don't you ride up front on the way to the park so you can really see how fast it goes?" I nodded my head in quick succession, thrilled at the prospect. So, we went back into the house. Everyone was ready to go, and I said, "Guess what, mom? Suchandsuch says I can ride up front!" And you made the day completely memorable, even though we never made it to the park. You were good at that kind of thing. Remember? You yelled at me, and you yelled at him, saying things like, "You are going to let HER ride up front and put ME in the back? Are you fucking kidding me? She's always doing this. Taking the attention of my boyfriends. She's doing this on purpose, you know?...blah, blah, blah." What I recall the most is how he stood there, with his jaw hanging somewhere around his knees. Then he said -and I love him to this day for it- he said, "You are absolutely insane." And he left. Unfortunately, the excitement was only just beginning for me. I had to listen to you go on and on about how I was always deliberately stealing your attention away from men - grown men. I was eight. Thank you for that.
I could fill a book with all of the things you taught me, but I would write it just to burn it, so I'll just wrap it up by saying: in addition to the above lessons, you also taught me not to use humiliation as a disciplinary tool; you taught me that kids, adolescents, and adults make mistakes...no one is above making mistakes, except you; you taught me not to try to strangle my son (I REALLY appreciate that lesson); you taught me how horrible it is to strike a child in the face; you taught me to let my son be who he is and love him -not in spite of it, but because of it. You taught me how to be the mother I am by setting the supreme example of the mother I should never be.
And, despite your greatest efforts, you taught me how strong I am, and good, and honest, and worthy. So, thanks for that.

Wednesday, April 11, 2012

J is for J-walking. What an absolutely ridiculous concept. How did people cross the road before electronic "walk" and "don't walk" signs existed? Did they just follow the chicken? Holy crap. I think I just answered the age old "question!" Of course. How could we be so blind?! The chicken did not cross the road to get to the other side. Well, it did, but not of its own accord. Oh my god. Poor chicken. It was forced at gun-point (sword point?) to be the "guinea pig" or test-target! It's all so clear to me now: let the chicken cross...if it doesn't end up a feathered bit of road kill, the humans then quickly follow.
And THEN, when we became technologically advanced enough to have automated safety-signs, we turned the whole ordeal into a dumb riddle as a cover-up. I feel so stupid for not seeing this sooner. This A to Z challenge has really opened my eyes to a lot of stuff, and we are only on "J." I shutter to think about what "W" or "Z" will expose. I have to cut this post short. I am in a state of shock.

Tuesday, April 10, 2012

I is for Intelligent Life Form (ILF). I open this post begging the question: "What constitutes 'Intelligent?'" Does intelligence boast a high IQ score? Is it simply having the talent to reason (which of course, begs a further consideration of how to aptly define 'reason' or 'reasoning'). Maybe to be "intelligent" is nothing more than possessing the ability to think with consequence? Now, THAT's something to toss around in the old noggin, ain't it? Acting with consequence is something we all know about, but thinking with consequence? We should explore the notion. But first, I'd like to go ahead and plant the next thought-seed up for harvest: "What attributes must something have to be considered a 'life form?'" Is a life form something solid that can be seen and touched? Is a heart beat a requirement? The ability to think? The ability to die, whither on the vine, so to speak?
I once saw a show that featured people who fall in love with objects. One lady wanted to marry a bridge, while another was a rather promiscuous slut, unable to commit herself to just one mailbox. There was also a gentleman featured that was aroused by the lines and curvature of furniture. To these people, their objects of lust/love had life. Some went so far as to say that souls existed within the inanimate. To me (and probably to most of you, too), a post office receptacle with a soul is a ridiculous notion. And it is a ridiculous notion. And that's all I have to say about that.
Getting back to the sane part of this discussion, I would like to declare that a life form is defined by its ability to transition from one state of existence to another: young to old, healthy to sick back to healthy again, from seed to root & sprout to tree, etc. We cannot simply claim that that which eventually suffers a death is alive, thereby suggesting that life is defined by its ability to end. This would suffice to the atheist, of course, but not to those of us that believe -or are exploring a belief- in something beyond the body. We can, however, safely consider (for all facets of religious design, as well as the absence of such) that death is a transition, not an end. For the believer, it is a shedding of skin that allows us to move on to another state of being. For the non-believer, it is a transference of flesh back to the earth, thus returning the favor of nutrient and sustenance that the earth has so long given. For me -the fickle believer of god and science- it is both.
So, okay. The ability to transition from one state of existence to another: this is what I have decided "life form" means to me. Now, if we can jump back to the subject matter apropos of the first question, we find ourselves with something more difficult to succinctly define: "intelligence." If you recall, you agreed -by continued reading- to explore the idea of "thinking with consequence" to be a possible adequate measure of intelligence. As for me, I have just -even as I write this- considered and accepted it as the definition I am seeking. Why? Because, think about it: if we are being completely honest with ourselves, we understand that there is no possible way that the human of all beings is the most intelligent. We can't be. More often than not, we act out in a way that clearly works against the "circle of life" (go ahead, I'll wait while you burst out in melodic imitation of Elton John's interpretation of The Lion King...), even while in supposed possession of our consequential prospects of action. We continue to barely survive the consequences of our actions; we continue to barely survive ourselves. And why is that? Because we let the consequence come alive only through action, when it is too late. We do not extend consequential design to our thought process. Right about now, you are probably asking the obvious: "Isn't consideration of consequences before we act proof enough that it exists within our thoughts?" No. It isn't. It is proof that the consideration exists in our fidgety human minds, and consequence is animated for our consideration BY our consideration. Have I lost you, yet? Please hang with me. If you let go now, a whole lot of rope will be wasted. ;)
If we assume, for a moment, that everything begins and ends with thought (and it does), and we readily claim responsibility of our own thoughts, then we must also assume that we are the ever-changing art form inspired by the acceptance or denial of every idea we have ever had. So, in the very same way, it must be understood that to think with consequence would require us to become the consequence. See, consideration of the result of our actions is just that: consideration, a prelude. Nothing more, nothing less. It is a practice we use that allows our conscience to sample our ideas...our thoughts...before we make them manifest. But what about manifesting thought through thought?! Exactly how intelligent would one have to be to do that? Exactly how patient and in control of one's mind would a life form have to be to allow themselves the far-sighted practice of actually becoming the consequence in thought, before it is made an unmovable, yet far-reaching result of action?
If you are still having a hard time making a determination between consideration and thinking with consequence, try this: Suppose you have a grand idea for a grand invention that will change the world and make you lots of moola. Now suppose you have the ability to become that idea in thought -working out all the kinks and trouble-shooting issues in detail- before you project it into physicality? Imagine the time and effort and money you could save! Let us do the same sort of supposing with the decision to go to war. Oh my! The things we could avoid with real intelligence.
Oh well. At least we have determined that the human race is, indeed, a life form.

Monday, April 9, 2012

H is for Haiku. I've always been fascinated by the haiku, because, if properly done, they allow for so much to be said in just three short lines,each with an assigned number of syllables (1st line- 5, 2nd line- 7, and 3rd line- 5). But, since I am not known for my ability to keep things brief, I decided -a few years back- to create a poem within a poem...or, rather, several poems within a single poem...using the almighty Haiku. So, here it is. ***drum roll please***

"A Foreign Sneeze" (many people in the past have pondered this title, and I have not -until now- revealed the simple -and juvenile- "meaning" behind it: basically, when someone says "haiku," I always want to say "bless you." Sounds like a Japanese sneeze to me).

Inspiration found
Inhibitions lingering
Something old comes forth

Her world has gone cold
Ice clings to her memories
Her core is locked tight

He can see a flame
Desperate, he beckons it
He won't let her freeze

Pregnant with questions
Solitude shows no mercy
She must birth alone

Thoughts like fireflies
Now caught in an air-tight jar
Die on the bottom

Seasons keep changing
The flickering can be seen
The lid is removed

Hope sits in her lap
With his face against the glass
He saves his last breath

Saturday, April 7, 2012

G is for Goldfish. I had a goldfish. His name was Morpheus, and much like his name-sake, he was big and black (he had gold flecks speckled about his fat black body, so I suppose that's what qualified him as a goldfish; that, and some other scientifically mundane trait classification chart). Morpheus also had giant eyes atop his head, which put him in the "he's-so-ugly-he's-cute" category of existence...not the worst list to be on, I suppose. There's always the "he's-so-ugly-he's-ugly" list, so I guess you could say that Morpheus had a fin up on the world and its grotesque need for labeling. But that is not what made him special. Despite what many humans like to think, not all goldfish spend their lives swimming about their tanks, desperately trying to escape the relentless piece of aquatic doo-doo trailing from their asses. Not all goldfish pass the time between feedings by staring at the other identical goldfish in the tank that has seemingly decided to devote its life to being an irritating mimic. No. Morpheus was so much more than that.

He had such ingenuity; for instance, at "play-time," he would place himself above the air bubbles that came out of the air bubble thing on the bottom of his tank, and he would let it push him lazily up to the top of his watery world. Then, he would swim back down and do it again. And again. And again. Crazy fish. He was so special.

He also got the biggest kick out of "playing dead." There he would be, lying in the corner, eyes holding a wild blank stare while I tapped frantically on the glass, screeching his name. Every time I would think, "This is it. He really is dead this time." And just before I would reach for the net thing that nets things out, he would jump back to life. He got me every time with that trick. I would scold him, insisting that one day he really would be dead, and I wouldn't believe him because he was the "fish that cried shark." He never did get the point, but I could never stay mad at him for long. Crazy, crazy fish. He really was special.
He had this way of cheering me up, too. When I was feeling down, I would often sit in front of his tank and watch him. And, as odd as this sounds, it was as if he could sense my murky mood. Each time -without fail- he would swim over to me and....are you ready for this?...he would make funny faces at me! Am I kidding you? No, I am not! I swear by god. He would do this thing with his lips, pooching them in and out. It was hysterical. Oh, how we would laugh! Crazy, crazy, crazy fish. Incredibly special.
Of course, everyone knows that goldfish usually die after just a short time (I've never understood why people marvel at this as if it is some huge mystery), but not my Morpheus: he held his breath for almost four years! Didn't I say he was special?

Friday, April 6, 2012

I actually wrote this a while ago and posted it as a Facebook "note," and while I have enjoyed coming up with A to Z blogs on the spot, not knowing what the word to each corresponding letter would be until the clicks of my keyboard gave them life on the screen before me, I guess I've known all along that this previously written piece (though I did change the title to fit with today's letter) was going to make it on to one of my A to Z's eventually. The subject matter is too relevant not to express...again. So, here it is: F is for..."Face-me-not"Standing in line, waiting patiently to pay far too much for processed and injected food (because, based on the price of it, the organic stuff obviously has pieces of gold and diamond chips hidden within for which one can "sift" after proper digestion and waste disposal has occurred), i look around and can't help but notice the downward gaze or sideways glance of every person in my general vicinity. It's as if making eye contact with a fellow human being poses the same threat that Perseus stood against in his battle with the infamous gorgon, Lady M. Our ipods and cell phones have become modern day Shields, and anyone that doesn't know our name on sight is the enemy. So, I study the people around me without any worry that i will be noticed, as it has quickly become apparent that they are conjuring & expending precious energy to SEEM as though they don't have the time or will to waste their energy on anything outside of their play list or mobile solitaire game. I watch as a dozen or so people carry on as if the matter that composes their bodies and their buggies define the beginning and end of their worlds. I watch as a dozen or so pairs of eyes bounce around until they can find some superficial place of rest; which, incidentally, seems to manifest in the following order of descending pseudo-comfort: 1) any sort of compact piece of technology, 2) the editorial that boasts the skinniest girl on the cover; or 3) the ingredients or calorie content on the back of which ever container is closest at hand in the shopping cart. If two sets of eyes do happen to catch each other in mid-pass, the exact same phenomenon occurs, every time: the half-smile. Ah yes. The half-smile...the go-to expression that says, "this is as far as i am willing to go to engage you. I will try not to surf the same sight line as you again, and would appreciate it if you'd do the same so this awkward exchange does not have to ensue a second time. Have a nice life." As I'm observing the strange meandering that is humanity, a lady takes her place in the line to the right of me. Careful to station herself the accepted 3 to 5 feet away from the person in front of her, she immediately whips out her iphone. My eyes fall to about the height of her kneecap, onto which a darling little girl grips with one arm, while ambitiously sucking her thumb. As a thumb sucker myself, I find fellowship. The little one, who I dubbed "Layla," is looking at me...right in the eye. She blinks, shyly. I wrinkle my nose playfully and smile. "Layla" responds by removing her thumb long enough to smile back. Sincere and without any face other than her own, she smiles. In my peripheral, I see the mother's face turned toward me. Just as I look up, she looks down, following the line of my previous gaze to find her daughter at the end of it. She then places her hand - the one not holding the iphone that only moments before took precedence to the joy and attention of her child - on her daughter's head and guides the little one around to the other side of her, allowing "Layla" to grasp her other knee for security before returning her attention to the iphone app of the day. "Layla" peers around her mother's thigh at me. Mother shifts her posture to block any further interaction. The man behind me clears his throat to let me know that he feels it is time for me to begin unloading my groceries on the whole four inches of available conveyor belt space that lies between me and the plastic grey separation bar that marks the end of the transaction in front of me. I ignore him. After another ten minutes or so, I pay for my groceries and begin the walk out to my car. My thoughts turn to "Layla" and her mother. I'm sad and a little angry. My eyes dart around in search of the vehicle that I can't afford to put gas in and by their haste, they accidentally fall upon another set of eyes. I register the image of an elderly woman, with a cane. By the time showing on her face, I can only imagine her story: the things she has seen & done, and learned... by reward or consequence. I understand in that fraction of a second that she is a piece of human history; she is an offering of insight that only a combination of such an acquired past and the appreciated present can extend. I want to reach out to her, thank her for her contributions and honor her mistakes. I want to hear her stories. But then "Layla" and her mother's influence - the story of our future - floats back to the forefront of my mind, and all the old woman gets from me is a guarded half-smile.

Thursday, April 5, 2012

E is for Enchantment: a mystical induction of bewildered beauty and wonder. Some might even claim that to be enchanted is to be exposed to a magical obsession outside the realm of free-will. The dictionary defines "enchant" as: 1. to delight to a high degree, or 2. to impart a magic quality or effect to. I believe in enchantment, myself, and I believe that it is both highly delightful and magical. I also believe that each of us should allow ourselves a bit of enchantment every single day (or night) of our lives.
The one thing I don't believe about enchantment is that it is hiding within a witch's brew or a wizard's wand just waiting to be cast upon some unsuspecting recipient, and while I might believe in bits and pieces of "magical obsession," I do not believe that any of it operates without our full participation and acknowledgment. Enchantment is not something that is done to us; it is something we do to ourselves. It is something that we let happen in our own sense of time and space and wonder. But just as spending endless days sitting against the base of a tree down by the pond kissing random frogs has never once rendered a Prince Charming, we can't just sit around waiting for the feeling of enchantment to come along and ask our permission to enliven and inspire us, either. We have to seek it, and once found, we have to welcome the beauty, the "magic," to come in. We have to allow ourselves to see all the things that are anxiously waiting to carry us away in a moment of sheer awe, but we have to open more than our eyes to be enchanted in this way; we have to open our souls and our hearts (not the blood-pumping organ, but the life-enhancing essence), thereby allowing the super-human power of imagination that lurks within us to flourish and mingle with our very existence.
As for me, I find enchantment in the night sky. Not every night. Though I go outside every night to admire the speckled dome of hieroglyphs above me, I do not always see beyond the obvious beauty to the hidden meaning and wonderment, because the jagged edges of life tend to distract me more often than not, making it difficult to impart myself with the openness required to consistently experience the magic. I also find -when I can- enchantment in the interaction of children (well, enchantment and astonishment). I find enchantment -almost always- near the ocean. There is something about the ocean that assists -with a gentle ease- in opening my heart and soul, helping me to let its holiest of elements pour over me as the waves pour over each other with a playful, but powerful Truth. I know, too, that I am not the only one that has this special relationship with the ocean. I don't know why it is, but some places are more magical than others, and therefore easier to "access." Mountains, for instance: I would find it hard to believe that any one could stand atop a mountain and not feel the absolute majesty that lives there. But, even still, it is up to us to bring it forth and allow it to fill the open parts of us with its secrets.
The best and biggest part about all of this is that once we realize just how we control the enchanting moments of our lives, it will soon follow that we come to understand that WE have been the magic all along.

Wednesday, April 4, 2012

D is for Dog. I've never really been a cat person. Don't get me wrong: I would love to raise a lion from cub to beast and snuggle with it daily, but I really don't have the room and quite frankly, that is one litter box I don't want any part of. Not to mention, precious cub would grow into giant predator and would probably eat my dogs, and that would be no good. It certainly wouldn't make for a happy ending to this blog-post. In fact, it would probably eat me, making any further blogging impossible on my part. So...okay...D is also for Digression, it seems. Back on track, shall we?
I, like thousands of humans, have dogs. I have always had or lived with a dog, except for the four and a half years I lived with my dad, because my little sister was terrified of them (when she was but a wee tot, she got bit in the face by one). Anyway, over the years, I have learned a lot about dogs and -as it turns out- they have taught me just as much, if not more, about myself. At the moment, I have two dogs: a beautiful Golden Retriever that we call Baley (he also has other names like: Boobie, Boo-Boo, Fartie, and Bay-Bays) and a "yellow lab" whose official name is Doc, but he will also answer to Doctavius, Tater-Face, Tatie, and Monkey. They could not be more different in personality and demeanor, but the one thing they have in common is they would both die for me, my husband, and our son if the need arose. Even if the (hypothetical) danger presented them a steak-bribe, I feel pretty confident they would still put our safety first. Their instincts would tell them that members of their beloved family (pack) were in trouble, and they would fight for us; without any thought of their own safety, they would fight for ours. Their love is just that big.
And that's just it, isn't it? That's what makes dogs so incredibly stellar. They love us no matter who we are or what we've done. They are loyal in a way that most human beings cannot even begin to fathom, much less put to practice. And all we have to do to be worthy of such a love is love them back (and only a little, by comparison).
Every now and then, as I watch my dogs sprawled out on my king-size bed, leaving only just enough space for me and my laptop, it dawns on me that creatures live with me. Actual creatures, derived from wolves, live with us! They are creatures, yet they become ashamed and hurt when they have let us down, when we scold them. They seek forgiveness until it is given so that life -for them- can go on. And all the while, they have the ability to tear our throats out if they so desired (well, the breeds I prefer do; still, the little yippies could at least do some damage to an Achilles tendon or a big toe). But all they know is they love us and need us to love them. That's all they need to know.
There is so much more I want to say about the utter awesomeness that is the canine unit, but I am told that A to Z blogs are best if kept short, so I will sign off with this thought: I believe entirely that dogs were put here for us (whether by evolutionary prowess or divine command, I cannot say; though I suspect it's a bit of both). They were put here for us, and they seem to be aware of it. We were put here for each other, yet remain unaware of this point of existential relevance. And "experts" say that dogs have only a fraction of human intelligence. Is that so?

Tuesday, April 3, 2012

Today, C is for Chewing, impolite chewing (and by association, I guess C is also for Consideration). There are a few things that can instantly ignite flames of rage within the core of my very being. Loud and obnoxious chewing, also known as smacking, is at the top of my fire and brimstone list. I cannot explain it; well, I can...and I suppose I will within this blog-post, but it can be a lonely existence. Although I once met a girl who described the exact same feelings that I undergo when subjected to the inexcusable practice of excessively audible CHEWING, and as she carried her description through to the end, I thought two things and nothing more: 1) 'Oh my God! I am not the only one whose entire body, mind, and soul has a borderline homicidal reaction to smacking!' And 2) 'I really, really like this girl. I don't need to know anything else about her. She is my friend and my sister.' I never saw her again after that initial and brief visit, but my feelings about her remain to this day.What I would like to do now is try to explain what I undergo when I hear loud chewing, crunching, smacking, etc. Many of you will think that I need professional help, but I hold out hope that there will be those of you that understand PRECISELY every detail of what I describe, and together we can bring about a public awareness of the importance of Considerate Chewing by striking down -with a heavy and vengeful fist- those that engage in the grotesque practice of smacking and excessive crunching. So, here it is:
When the very first watery, mushy clicking noise of a smacker reaches my ears, my skin runs cold, but my very first thought -every single time- is: 'Maybe it was just a one time thing, a slip-up. It happens to the best of us; we all accidentally let one loose every now and again.' So, you see, I do try to begin with an extension of beneficial doubt. But when the disgusting, indefensible assault on my hearing continues -seemingly without end, as if time itself also becomes offended at the despicable and punishable sound- my eyes glaze over. Seriously, I can actually feel my pupils dilating. The corners of my mouth turn downward, while the left side of my top lip quivers in a failing attempt to restrain a sneering snarl. The carotid artery in my throat quickens in a natural mimic of my heart. My right foot begins to bounce up and down as my body tries to find some way to process and expend the build up of adrenaline coursing through it. Then, as the guilty takes barbaric bite after barbaric bite, the rage becomes too much for further containment. Visions of plunging my own eating utensils into the face of the smacker take full occupancy of my mind, and it is at this point that I will close my eyes, tighten my mouth into a thin white line, leaning my head first to the right, then to the left: each time raising my chin slightly upward so that my neck cracks on both sides, thus allowing the rage free flow to my face, turning it varying shades of red and purple.
Right about this time, one of two things usually transpires: 1) Either my husband has noticed what is happening and will quickly try to diffuse the situation by light-heartedly joking about the offender's caveman-like monstrosity of an excuse for eating, with the hope that it will politely bring it to his/her attention and he/she will refrain from his/her poor display of humanity (and most of the time, they do get the hint, and I can see them visibly asserting concentration on something most of learned to master right around the time we learned not to color our nursery walls with our own feces); OR 2) I will stand up abruptly and say something like, "I WILL NOT endure this for another second," after which I will storm out of the room, leaving everyone shocked and wondering what the hell just happened (as if they are incapable of hearing the same piggery that I am. Whatever).
So, who can relate?

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About Me

More often than not, I am under the influence of insomnia. Most of the things I am too lazy to write about (til now) come from the disembodied voices that float freely around my bedroom in the very early morning hours. Yep. While the rest of the world sleeps, I am negotiating terms with the trapsing trolls that stomp noisily to and fro across the bridge that connects my conscious mind to the scary depths of the sub-conscious world of dreams and nightmares. Sometimes I am able to out-smart them; sometimes not. Sometimes I get halfway across that damn precarious bridge and stop, just hovering above the chasm of akashic knowledge, waiting to catch the random bits of imprint and cryptic alphabet that might float up to me. Now, with the ambition of a newly inspired blogger, I will try to assemble the randomness, and I may actually write...something.